Nikolai POV
There are few places I dislike more than a tailor’s shop.
Not because of the tailoring, the tailoring itself is always exceptional, every seam and stitch a mark of pure craftsmanship.
The problem is everything that comes with it: the standing still for what feels like hours, the being measured and poked and prodded in absolute silence, the endless opinions about lapels and cuffs and what constitutes a proper notch.
Weddings, it turns out, require far more debate about fabric than organized crime ever has. There are discussions about weight, weave, lining, buttons, and pocket styles, as if every detail is a matter of national security.
“You’ve gotten broader,” the tailor announced, pausing with the measuring tape across my shoulders.
I turned, skeptical. “I have not.”
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